The Last Outlaw

24
1937-2010 Todd MOORE

description

tribute to todd moore

Transcript of The Last Outlaw

1937-2010

Todd MOORE

The Last Outlaw

dedicated to the memory and the poetry of todd moore

Poems by Todd Moore

& Friends

RUSTY TRUCK PRESS

http://rustytruck.wordpress.com

[email protected]

© Original Authors

Cover Art by Debby Dunnegan Other art by F.N. Wright

ISSN 2154-2252

FOREWARD

By RD ARMSTRONG

Todd Moore is gone. It’s been a rough two weeks for me. It’s hard when you lose

someone you have been a fan of…harder still when you’ve also known them well

enough to call them friend and mentor.

I first met Todd ten years ago. I had interviewed him for my little mag, the Lummox

Journal, in ’97, but it took me another three years to get out to visit him. I wrote about

that trip in my second long poem, On/Off the Beaten Path. I stayed with Todd and his

wife Barbara for a few days. They were very gracious. Best of all, Todd and I hit it off

really well. Almost as if we were old friends, just getting together for a little visit. And we

had some of the deepest conversations…Todd had the ability to get really serious no

matter where we were, be it his patio or at the local McDonalds. He could always do

that. The last time I spent some time with him, in May of ’09, we spent many hours

talking about the craft of poetry and its’ presentation to the world. I’ve always had

doubts about what my place in that world is and he was always good at helping me see,

without being preachy about it like a lot of poets can be. I never felt like Todd was

talking down to me or being anything less than straight-up honest. That’s rare. Much of

the Small Press is riddled with the “standard line of BS” when it comes to the pecking

order.

But not so with Todd. He was a good man and a decent writer. His Dillinger epic is an

amazing sequence of very spare poems, some of which are downright spiritual in

nature. The Corpse is Dreaming is the last section of the series and I had the pleasure

of publishing it in 1999. It details the last moments of Dillinger’s life as he lays in the

alley behind the Biograph, bleeding to death. It is amazing!

But Todd was not limited to one long-ass poem. He also wrote a lot of short poems, all

in that spare, just a word per line down the outer margin of the page – style. And, on top

of all that, Todd also wrote essays…a lot of them. He wrote eleven or so for my mag

during the course of its’ eleven year run and I was only one mag out of many that he

wrote for. Perhaps someday Todd’s essays will be published in their own volume and

receive the recognition that they deserve. Perhaps that will also be the day that Todd

finally receives the recognition that HE deserves, too.

Todd Moore told me once that when a poet starts worrying about his legacy, he might

as well hang it up because his days are numbered. And yet, if there is anyone who is

more deserving of a legacy, I can’t think of them at the moment. Pretty much all the big

guns of the late 20th century left a legacy in their wake and so too does Todd. His shoes

will be retired…nobody will be able to fill them.

sonny pulled

a handful

of change

out of his

pocket

& dropped

it on the

bar sd

what will

a buck

twenty

nine get

me the

bartender

pulled a

cut down

pool cue

out from

under the

bar sd get

you dead

from Poems for $1.29

--todd moore

Catching The Westbound For Todd Moore

Look how it's draggin' I hear my mother's words

It's a long drag and a double-header Climbing the grade bowing south to Santa Fe

Blending past the purple prairie sage

Sun lush in skyward's crimson rim

Far behind The Sangre de Christo Sparks link and bellow from its stacks

It's whistle low in half open moan. We can beat it to the next crossing, John

This V8 can outrun anything on wheels. --Charles Plymell

instructions

for playing

russian rou

lette first

put the

bullet in

an empty

chamber

spin the

cylinder

3 times

quickly

cock the

hammer

back lick

it off for

luck & the

black taste

of death

then point

the pistol

at yr head

take a

very deep

breath ex

hale slowly

& let yr

finger fall

in love w/

the trigger

the way

that maya

kovsky’s

did the

shock of

the click

cd kill

you

--todd moore

lola poured

half a bottle

of tequila

over her

pubic hair

& cunt

then

worked

her legs

open &

shut to

get the

full effect

before

giving

ringo

that hey

baby look

sd you

think you

cd put

yr tongue

down there

to save

those extra

drops

--todd moore

what're

you looking

at my old man

sd using a

straight razor

to shave

himself

w/ what's

the trick of

doing that

w/out getting

cut i

asked he

angled the

blade down

& i heard

steel scraping

skin in the

lather

& then

riding clean

no trick

my old man

sd wiping

the blade off

on an old

rag slapped

along the

sink's

banged edge

blood is

the ante

sometimes

you lose

--todd moore

when the

wolf

discovered

its legs

had been

shot off

it lay

on its

side in

the long

night of

snow

& began

to tell

stories from

way

back in

the eyes

--todd moore

LETTER TO A FRIEND IN ALBUQUERQUE

Todd; I was listening to your poem

About Tornado Jones on that CD

Mark sent me and when you talked

About the music calling to him

Especially when the moon was rising

And the wind was in the trees

I knew exactly what you meant

I too have felt it, tasted it, even smelled it

Even though the moon I see rising

And the sound of the wind in the trees

That I hear is only in my imagination

Because when I look out my window

What I see through the bars…

There’s no moon

No trees

And no wind

Only the dusty brown sky

Or if it’s late

The shapeless steel blue of

An urban California night

Silence punctured by

The slamming of doors

The siren’s wail

And the laughter of someone else’s woman.

--RD Armstrong

Smoke Jumper

Scrambled my mind

all the time

skinned alive

totally fried

acid coke booze sex

with girls

obsessed with self-destruction

went to see the Dead

lost my mind

but head would have rhymed

with false confidence

bad memories; I try to forget

because I’m a good girl now

all sins washed away

with self awareness

and experience …

smoke jumper

lift me high

above the flames

end the pain

of learned life lessons

introspective migraine truth

daily blues

I did not die for you

I could not dream

but still one existed

because of your touch

your offer

redemption

I beg for your forgiveness

and trust

a kiss

too loud

teach me silence

and maybe next time

Heaven will not be

so very far away.

-- Lucy Hell

THE FAT MAN

we sailed into the port of Nagasaki

fourteen years after a bomb code-

named Fat Man was dropped on them

searing the minds of the survivors forever

& not exactly making us popular

as if visiting their fair city so soon after

the big bang that dropped rudely upon them

from the skies that day

was like rubbing salt into wounds

the city probably licks to this day

& when drunken sailors & marines

fueled by the rudeness of citizens of a country

known for their politeness found their way

to a memorial that had been erected at ground zero

where Fat Man had brought death & devastation

to them, eclipsed only by the bigger bomb, Little Boy,

dropped on Hiroshima only three days earlier

& at this memorial there was a mock-up of the city

as it had existed before Fat Man dropped in to say hello & there was this button you

could push that would bring a beam of light down from above the mock-up & strike

exactly at where the Fat Man had hit & a bright ring of light would appear at what had

been ground zero & it would expand in concentric rings diminishing in brightness as it

expanded in size to demonstrate how far the immediate damage extended, unable to

truly show the thousands who died that day not to mention the ones who would die as

the years passed & these drunks would depress that button & each time they did they

would chant, laughing boisterously" You'll wonder where the yellow went when you

brush your teeth with pepsodent"

the slogan of a popular brand of toothpaste in those days wondering why they were so

hated & couldn't get laid.

--F.N. Wright

possibilities daughter’s chatting on facebook wife’s filling in answers poorly on our son’s homework while he divides his attention between cartoons and video games and I’m waiting for a text message from a woman who may or may not love me who may or may not go back to her husband or run away with the next guy with clean teeth and thick hair and a passport of possibilities able to deliver her as I’m waiting to be delivered some place better, different some place where no one answers for their actions or explanations for the prior years of inaction and still there’s no text message and this may mean something or it may mean nothing at all and my daughter’s fingers flit across the keyboard communicating with the sort of day-to-day friends she’ll depend on for compassion when I make good my escape and my son will never miss me though for the rest of his life he’ll gun me down in first person shooter dreams and my wife will hate me no more and no less than she’s hated me this last decade I’ve been here without really ever being here

--Karl Koweski

Waiting Tables In Reno 40 years ago she left him while he was getting his leg blown off in Nam Now, here she was waiting tables in Reno - not even recognizing him - after she almost fell over his prosthetic leg “Keep your leg under the table, sir, I could fallen and broken something.”

--Doug Draime

Pair of Suits

with bibles

under their arms going

door to door selling jesus

w/ two year fixed rates

salvation on

the budget plan

like cable TV

100% guaranteed

not to rise

inflation be

damned

In case of flood

toll free numbers

in each book

Hot mail for all you sinners

--Alan Catlin

THE EDITOR I rewrite the poem For the third time Print it out again Ball it up and toss it At the feet of my cat Who shakes it Like a mouse Spits it out Like a bitter pill There will be no fourth time The editor has spoken FAME Today a poet, editor invited me To submit a poem on fame I thought of asking him for money But long ago gave away my soul for free Being a poet I’m already a millionaire 6 AM POEM Lying here alone in bed A gnawing hunger in my belly Soon I’ll take my aching bones To the kitchen table Take my morning dose of pills Sad there is no woman to put them Next to my morning cereal

--A.D. Winans

TIFFANY IN MY BACKPACK

This precious, sterling heart Requests it be returned to its dealer Should it wind up lost

I deem this request laughable Should it escape in this neighborhood No return from here

Unless said dealer has a covert deal With this district’s seedier retailers We’d all like to know about

The trick is to conceal the bourgeoisie logo So the golems don’t hone in like airplanes On beacon signals

This is, after all, the known Tenderknob The amorphous in-between area Where the rich and poor

Rub their shoulders and genitalia Together in a shared depravity Which no one questions

Not even the plainly out of place Out-of-placers who aren’t really quite sure How to react

When cannabis clouds form around their heads Where hot girls openly share studded tongues Right in front of them.

Everyone plying his or her shtick in these parts Still believes they’re a beautiful player Not like down the hill

Where, but for the grace of their goddess They are one bad lover away from landing The gambling gone bad

Whether the dreams move uphill or downhill, they never return.

--Paul Corman Roberts

Punking Up Hank III had a bomb tech rebuild his guitar and amp only way to harness all this riffage-n-rage, all these folks treated like skin cancer buttocks scabs exploding, explaining, rat a tat tat freedom agony, economics, ecstacy sonic with thick blistering picks-n- thermal dreams

--David S. Pointer

Barry

had the

campus

drug czar

in a hardship

headlock when

a cop came

around the

bookstore

corner and

thought Barry

was bad and

side kicked him

into a crumpled

silence and the

drug czar got

up and shot them

both w/ a Glock

10mm taken

off another corpse.

--David S. Pointer

INTO THE NIGHT I have been walking alongside an unknown country road thumb out all day long now. it is summer & the heat beats down on me without mercy reminding me of another country years ago cars slow down & come to a stop only to peel out & spray me with gravel & taunting laughter as I run to them for a lift most of them young kids, some not so young but behaving like bullies a convertible, four young girls (perhaps cheerleaders) all but the driver flash their young breasts & the two in the back moon me watching their young bare asses disappear is like watching my youth leaving me in their rear view mirror as I walk into the night alone. --F.N. Wright

Guanajuato Honeymoon On the disco plaza by the light of the chupacabra moon we did the tequila tango until the local chicos y chicas threw Virgin Mary tortillas at us and begged us in Spanish to get a fucking room. In the middle of the witching hour the ghost of Selena got in bed with us and asked us to rub her feet. I was pretty turned on but I was shy so I filled the tub with Epsom salt and hot water and soaked with my eyes closed, dreaming of the Gulf of Mexico back when it was electricity free.

--Misti Rainwater-Lites

as dillinger waits

an outlaw

shot the last

colt forty

five

ricocheting

through the

universe

like tequila

shot glasses

slammed on a

sawdust floor

and tonight

lola

will dance

for no one

--Scot Young